Propped Against The Wall Poem by Eric Cockrell

beneath the thunderous clap
of coming storm,
shadows scurry from limb to limb.
sunlight weeps through pregnant clouds,
and the spider builds his web.
with the feathered taste of sparrow's wings,
in the rhythm of marching ants.
logs cut and split, stacked against the house,
the spicket drips, and no one cares.

poverty tugs at the walls,
while voices tense with hunger's beat,
are lost in empty rooms.
children run between the cars,
with dirty faces, without shoes.
dogs bark from rib cages exposed,
as water boils on the stove.
the smell of time and elderly feet,
fans turn in paint peeled windows.

the old man tunes his guitar,
perched on the stoop like an owl.
with fingers gnarled he plays the blues,
his lips groan with pages burnt.
as love and whiskey intertwine,
and small children stare in awe.
the revolver waits beside the Bible,
and the picture yellowed with time.

while angels ride their demonic steeds,
with swords drawn and fiery eyes.
the court brought to order,
with the gavel's brassy thud.
as life stands before itself,
both executioner and savior.
small moments stolen by random kindnesses,
burn like candles in the darkened gloom.
and forever then is nothing more,
than fingers, chords, and pick.
when eternity tastes like whiskey's lips,
and curls in cigarette smoke.

who am i to suggest
this wisdom known by ants and snails.
that the voice of god is but the bark,
that the owl hears and understands.
and the clap of distant thunder,
perhaps not as far as it seems.
the anarchy of naked poverty,
in the tears that fall like rain.
and still the spicket drips in silent prayer,
the axe propped against the wall!